


Anytime

by DeacyDrowse



Series: The Purge: Queen edition [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: All crime is legal, Chaos, Death, Gen, The Purge, Violence, crackfic, i do not own the purge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22882084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeacyDrowse/pseuds/DeacyDrowse
Summary: It's the 6th annual Purge in the UK.And this year, it's just John and Roger all alone.Well... it was meant to be.
Relationships: John Deacon & Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Roger Taylor
Series: The Purge: Queen edition [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636195
Comments: 32
Kudos: 22





	1. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third instalment.  
> This is mainly a set up chapter... and I’m still new to kissing scenes and cringe worthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Swearing, sex references, violence references.

_31/10/1973_

**Roger**

  
_‘Last year was the UK’s most successful Purge since 1968! If you can guess which county had the highest success rate – call 0500 288 291 with the chance of winning-’_

_‘Sainsbury’s has heightened the price of pork scratchings – the manager best watch his-’_

  
_‘B &Q is a spectacular place when set on fire – I can assure you that-’_

  
_‘The most unsuccessful borough was Wimbledon.’_

  
Next to me, there’s a snort.

  
‘Virginia Wade runs around beheading people with a tennis racquet before they can get _near_ Wimbledon.’ John sighs. ‘Let me guess – Hampstead Heath highest success?’

  
_‘And Hampstead-’_

  
‘TOLD YOU. And the county thing is a scam.’ 

  
I plonk down the final box from the moving van on the floor.

  
‘Yeah, the West Midlands always has the highest...’ I pause. ‘’Success rate.’’

  
‘Is the success rate all crime or just murders? If it’s anything then we contributed 0.000532 percent of the crime in 71 in London.’ He studies the box I’ve just put down. ‘That needs to go over in that pile.’ The bassist points to the corner of the room.

  
‘Why is there only 3 in that pile but 5000 over here.’ I gesture at the stack of neatly packaged boxes next to me.

  
‘Oh, stop exaggerating.’ John grabs the box. ‘It’s because the pile over here is for the boxes made from 1000-year-old pancakes.’

  
‘Now who’s exaggerating?’ I quip, just as the bottom of the box gives way, my collection of cassettes and glittery shirts falling to the floor. 

  
‘Also, it’s the pile you’re unpacking.’ He ushers me out the way. ‘I don't trust you with the rest, when you moved into my room last year you put pants in the sock drawer... unbelievable.’

  
‘Anyway, John we have the same amount of stuff, why do you have three times more boxes?’ 

  
‘I sort my stuff and don’t shoves shirts in the same box as... did you nab my Yes collection?’

  
I roll my eyes, gathering the items from the floor before taking the four, crummy boxes through to what would be our bedroom – if we had a bed.

  
‘I’m sure there’ll be a cheap bed in B&Q’s ‘burning hot discount’ tomorrow.’ John calls. ‘Until then it’ll have to be the kitchen counter.’

  
_Why is he like this?_

  
I shake my head at his comment, if somewhat piqued as to if he’s being serious, and begin unpacking. Why we got every piece of furniture for a bedroom except a bed is still beyond me. 

  
‘By the way, you do have a box for ‘ _your room darling_.’ It’ll be a bit suspicious, all our belongings in the same room.’

  
Snickering, I think back to Freddie and Bri’s reaction to John and I announcing that we’re moving out. Of course, they bombarded us with all the _‘sure you can put up with Rog’s company_ ’ and ‘ _I’m sure Roger’s company will be lovely – Roger’s the problem_ ’ and of course ‘ _make sure the walls are thick Deacy_...’ ‘ _Deaky, will you be okay cooking for 3 every morning?’_

  
They were trying to be subtle but everything they said was accompanied by sniggers and eyebrow flicks. John laughed at everything they said about me... accompanied by a knowing look in my direction.

  
Our bandmates don’t know about me and John. They just think we have a special bond and friendship because we’re the youngest. _Pfft_. I mean, I’ve mentioned subtleness and it’s not as if the brunette and I are. Even Fred – master of the sex reference – thoroughly missed John saying ‘ _sounds like Roger and I last nigh_ t’ at any given opportunity. I’ve even kissed him in the studio whilst Bri was playing three feet away from us. Completely and utterly oblivious. 

  
The reason we haven’t told them is Freddie. A few days after John and I got together, a girl came over and flirted with the bassist in a pub. He politely turned her down, claiming to ‘not be over his former girlfriend yet.’ Freddie overheard and came barrelling over, demanding to know the name of this ‘daughter of the devil that dare hurt my Deaky’ and why he’s never mentioned her. It was quite amusing hearing the singer curse someone who doesn’t exist but at the same time it gave me the image of Fred cutting off my gonads with a spoon if I dare cause a single tear to fall from John’s eye.

  
Still, that debacle got the bassist a pamper day from Freddie, so not all was bad.

  
I smile slightly as I take out the gift from the singer – a set of photo frames all bearing an image of his cats.

  
‘They’ll miss you and Deaky... I’ve given Tom the biggest frame – he _loves_ John.’

  
Yeah, the amount of times I’ve woken up to scratching at the door, followed by a ball of fluff butting past me and making himself at home on my partners face.  
Partner. I like calling John my partner rather than boyfriend. Mainly because it applies to both a relationship and master criminals.

  
Partners in crime. _Perfect_!

  
Just as I’m about to open the second box, a pair of slim arms wrap around my stomach, kisses peppering the back of my neck. 

  
John always manages to make me smile. He’s just so special and strange – taking the piss one second and cuddling me the next. Others would probably see him as fake, as a pretender but no. He’s just difficult to understand. I think that’s why we always clicked – we just know and _get_ each other – something other people almost never do.

  
He listens to me, my ideas and thoughts, and rather than brushing them off as ‘yet another ridiculous theory from Roger Taylor’ he listens. Being labelled the ‘dumb blond’ does make people’s judgement of you quite shallow and based on looks. Sure, i have looks on my side but I am more than that – and John appreciates that.  
I also appreciate that John isn’t an innocent little shy teen anymore. He’s a sassy arse. A _loveable_ sassy arse though. Only I know that side of him – makes me feel quite special, too.

  
‘Listen.’ There’s a giggle in my ear. ‘No hysterical screaming... no shouting... not bitching... no overbearing mother.’ I snicker and turn around, facing a smirking bassist. ‘And as for _Freddie_.’

  
‘No Bri leering over everything that I do... well everything that involves glass.’ I snigger, leaning in and pecking him on the lips. He rolls his eyes.

  
‘Well, that was pathetic!’ The brunette groans, staring at me. I wheeze, cupping his cheek and bring our lips together steadily, pushing him back slightly, my other arm wrapping around his back. The bassist sighs into my mouth, pressing further against me, smiling a little. His cold hands wrap around the back of my neck, deepening the kiss. 

  
‘Listen,’ I laugh, pulling away. ‘We only have until... around 5 to get this place habitable.’

  
‘Why 5?’ John cocks his head to the side.

  
‘It’ll take a while to fit the security.’ I notice a glimmer in his eyes. ‘ _Unless_...’

  
The bassist turns and exits the room, myself following in interest. He leads me to the living area – which he’s already set up – and gestures to a map on the table. There’re several little bits of blue-tack on it, each piece connected by a bit of thread. _What’s he planning_?

  
I look closer – realising there’s two maps, one of the City and another of southwest England. The first of the marked places is on Old Brompton Road, around where that new Ferrari garage is then many more, all leading to somewhere near Bristol.

  
‘Notice anything?’ John smirks at me. 

  
‘Looks _very_ similar to a certain journey from two years ago... only Ferrari. Why not Aston?’

  
‘365 California is convertible... don’t wear a hat.’ My partner points at the other dots. ‘These are all petrol stations. It’s quite a thirsty car.’

  
‘So, we’re going out, tonight, again?’ I smile, shaking my head in disbelief.

  
‘And if Pinky and Perky get killed we don’t have to feel guilty.’ John snickers. ‘Also, they _really_ won’t know – because they’re two miles away.’

  
‘So, nab the California and fuck off to Sandford?’ 

  
The brunette nods at me before squealing, laughing hysterically.

  
‘Y’know, we could fuck with them? Hide next to their door and keep knocking every five seconds.’ He suggests, his sneer evil. ‘Or post a turd through their letterbox. Or break in, knock them out and flatten Brian’s hair with the toastie machine.’

  
I cackle at that image.

  
‘And put Fred’s ballet slippers in the toaster.’ I pause. ‘Wait we already did that.’ 

  
‘So, nab the Ferrari, piss about at their flat.... Sandford by 2AM?’ John folds the maps and shoves them in his new back pack. ‘By the way, made 6 tasers and got two crowbars and about one million screwdrivers in here.’ 

  
‘One million... now who’s exaggerating?’ I quip, before slipping my hand behind his neck, pulling him toward me, my lips meeting his halfway as he hops forward at me. My eyebrows raise as he pushes me toward the wall. I shrug and turn us around, holding my partner gently against the wall, stroking his arm with one hand, my other tangled in his hair. The bassist giggles, as I start kissing along his jaw, trembling as I feel his long fingers grasping my shirt.

  
We’re that wrapped up with one another, we don’t hear the footsteps down the hall. 

  
‘ _Darling_ , the door was op – ROGER, WHAT THE FUCK?’

  
John freezes against me, his breaths quickening against my face. 

  
_Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I doubt Virgina Wade beheads people.  
> Again, I’m new to this. What I’m not new to is coat gangs and Roger Taylor nabbing a crummy hatchback – I’ll be back to that soon.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, it begins... again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Swearing, arguments, violence references, death references.  
> This is a test of how much dialogue one can fit in a chapter.

**Roger**

  
John and I freeze at Freddie’s voice, pulling away from one another. I slowly turn around, expecting to see the murderous face of our singer, but no. Our bandmate is nowhere to be seen.

  
‘FRED?’ I call, John shrinking behind me. Freddie comes striding into the room, sighing.

  
‘This place is a _mess_. You’ve just left boxes everywhere.’ He huffs, shaking his head. ‘You two promised us you’d have it sorted by 4... it’s nearly 5 now.’

  
‘Us?’ I frown.

  
‘Yeah, me and Alan... he’s checking your room darling.’ 

  
The bassist butts past me, sprinting into the hall. 

  
‘Is Deaky alright?’ 

  
‘Yeah but... the flat...? that’s... that’s what you are annoyed about?’ I ask. ‘The state of the place?’ Freddie nods.

  
‘What else?’ 

  
‘Not the chip in the photo of Miko?’ _Good save._

  
His eyes widen and he shoots out the room, dashing to - I presume – my room.

  
‘I thought _you_ were getting the bigger room?’ Bri is stood opposite John, looking down at the crummy boxes on the floor. ‘What did he do to get it?’

  
A smirk flashes across the brunette’s face – I know that smirk.

  
‘He had to-’

  
‘ _Yeah_ , thought if I have the bigger room, we could get a smallish drumkit in here.’ I jump in, glaring at my partner.

  
‘Rog, you have neighbours.’ The guitarist glances around the room. ‘And I don’t think there’s enough space... even without the bed.’

  
‘about that, we brought you some airbeds.’ Freddie adds.

  
‘Beds....why _plural_.’ John whispers, I roll my eyes.

  
‘We’re getting a bed tomorrow and the reason we’re not done yet is the moving van got stuck on around Hyde Park – there’s a whacking great big queue there.’ I whine. ‘That’s the point, how did you even _get_ here?’

  
‘West Way.’ Bri glances at his watch. ‘You two aren’t going to get all this done by 5. What security have you got?’

  
I panic. How long has John been planning the nab-California-fuck-off-to-Sandford business? Do we even _have_ any security? I brace myself for a lecture.

  
‘The one we used in 71.’ The bassist smiles. ‘I’ve fitted it. We’ll be fine.’

  
I stare at him. I’ve been going in and out of this flat since 2 and all this time I could’ve been knob-shocked? 

  
‘Why did you tell me to finish by 5 then?’ I hiss.

  
‘I didn’t. _They_ told you to finish by 5.’ He shrugs. ‘Anyway, that system also means you won’t be nailing anything to the door.’ 

  
‘It’s definitely fitted?’ Bri checks, staring at the bassist then down to me. I think that’s why John wears platforms – he can look Bri in the eye.

  
‘Yes... fitted better than that flimsy thing you fitted last year... seriously, you may as well have blocked the door with a bloody scatter cushion.’

  
I snort, Bri glaring at the bassist who just shrugs and wanders out the room. Then something clicks.

  
I follow him as he heads to the kitchen, flicking on the kettle.

  
‘How the _fuck_ did you fit the locks?’ I whisper. ‘We’ve _just_ moved in.’

  
‘I _didn’t_ fit them. There was no need.’ He pauses. ‘If Brian asks, just say you were oblivious or there was a Jag E-Type outside and you got distracted.’ I tilt my head, confused. ‘He probably picked up on the fact you were surprised I’d fitted them. How could you not see me if you were going back and forth out the front door all day?’

  
Our bandmates join us in the kitchen, surveying the place. I realise we haven’t even made a start on the kitchen – except for my partner plugging in the kettle the second we arrived – and can feel the disappointed eyes of Brian burning into the back of my head as I take out the mugs from a box.

  
‘That reminds me,’ he comments, ‘we didn’t just bring airbeds, there’s also several bags of food and drink in the car.’

  
‘Brian, didn’t I make it clear that _I’d_ sort the food?’ I whine.

  
‘Yes, that’s why there’s several bags of food and drink in the car... but I can leave it there if you don’t need it.’ I look to the floor. ‘ _Do_ you need it?’ I nod. ‘Good.’

  
‘Also, Deaky darling, why did you bring your shitbox?’ Freddie asks, John spinning around to face the singer. ‘You _know_ your shitbox.’

  
‘What do you mean my shitbox?’ He snaps. He knows _damn_ well what he means – the box with all the things the brunette has collected from skips and broken devices over the years. The singer always calls it the ‘shitbox,’ something that doesn’t please John.

  
‘That thing full of shit.’

  
‘I think you’ll find that’s a description of you, Freddie.’ The bassist’s face doesn’t falter, just a small glimmer in his eyes as Fred stares at him, mouth opening and closing. 

  
‘I’ll go and get the food.’ Bri backs out the room. ‘Then Fred and I’ll help you unpack.’

  
John’s attention snaps over to the guitarist, him dashing forward. I stand in front, blocking him and shaking my head. Even with our bandmates help, the flat isn’t going to be finished in time for the Purge, in time for mine and John’s plan. Well... it's unlikely. 

  
The bassist stops, eye’s icy whilst Freddie stands there grinning all of a sudden.

  
‘We can celebrate your new flat as a group.’ He laughs.

  
A short while later, Bri arrives back with half of Tesco and the four of us begin unpacking. I say the four of us, John spends most of the time sulking in the corner – but despite this we’re done not long before 7. We still have enough time to kick Pinky and Perky out, and get ready for the night... _just_ enough time.  
Freddie sits in-between the bassist and I on the sofa. I notice my partners arms are crossed and one leg is folded over the other, glowering when the singer pulls the brunette into a hug. He grimaces, and I’m sure he lets out a growl.

  
‘I guess you’re in your pre-Purge mood tonight, Deaky... it’s okay, darling – you’ll have me and Bri.’ 

  
‘NO!’ John shrieks, pushing Fred off of him and leaping to his feet. ‘You two are _not_ staying with us for another _five minut_ es let alone _all_ of tonight.’

  
My mouth falls open. I’ve never heard John shout like that. 

  
‘John?’ I whisper, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

  
‘Deaky, why-’

  
‘ _No_ Freddie! Roger and i moved out for a reason. You and Bri are too _fucking_ suffocating – _never_ leaving us alone for five seconds. Tonight, Roger and I had freedom from you two dickheads and your _fucking_ maternal _obsession_ with me.’ He turns to Brian. ‘Freedom from _your_ bitching arse fussing over _bloody everything_ and freedom from not having any _fucking_ space _what-so-fucking-ever_!'

  
Freddie, Bri and I stare at the bassist, none of us daring to move. _That was an outburst_. John stays stock still, breathing heavily, seething. He damn nearly blew it – told them about the past two Purges. _Nearly_ though – he wouldn’t.

  
‘Freddie I am not one of your cats. I don’t need fussing or looking after – certainly not by you. Also, Bri, we don’t need a locking system.’ _Shit, he would._

  
‘John-’

  
‘ _No Roger_!’ He pauses, sending me an apologetic look before glaring at the other two again. ‘we don’t _need_ a locking system because I’m not a child and Roger _isn’t_ stupid. We don’t _need_ protecting – we’re the ones that bloody protect _you_.’

  
‘Uh, Deacy, which one of us was crying when Fred and I were kidnapped?’ Bri snaps. _Oh god_.

  
‘WHICH ONE OF US KILLED AT LEAST FIFTEEN PEOPLE TO SAVE YOU AND IN '71 MURDERED _TIM_?’ The bassist screams, before his hand slams over his mouth. 

  
There’s silence. I want to stand in and say that I helped him kill them but that kind of isn’t true. I _hurt_ people yes, but John _killed_ them. He had the taser, he fired the taser – he _built_ the tasers. Freddie looks to his feet, I can tell he’s devastated that his innocent little Deaky isn’t so innocent after all. Bri has his head in his hands, probably trying to process it was Deacy that killed Tim. 

  
I realise, being the only one who isn’t completely shocked by John’s outburst, that i need to say something.

  
‘In '71, I wanted to steal an Aston...’ Bri looks up, his face falling and head slowly shaking. ‘John said I needed someone who could defend me... that’s him. In the car park, Tim tried to attack us so I stole a car and we ran.’ I can hear Freddie sniffling. ‘At the Aston garage we crashed the car, Tim climbed into the wreckage to kill me so John stopped him. He had to kill him... Tim would’ve killed _me_.’ 

  
I hesitate, looking over at the still frozen brunette.

  
‘Last year, we went out to save you, stole another car and we were being chased by some people so John fired them off the road... then we crashed _again_ in Kew Gardens and were chased again... John – i presume – killed them too. Then at Hampton Court we saved you two... had to kill some people on the way.’

  
‘Rog, stop saying kill.’ Brian growls. ‘Deacy, you... you _murdered_ people... then go about every day like you didn’t.’

  
My partner doesn’t reply, just stands there.

  
‘Bri... what do you prefer? 30-odd people we don’t know dead, or John and I dead in 71 and you two murdered by posh people in a maze.’

  
‘John – did _you_ knock me out last year?’ 

  
The bassist nods, shivering.

  
‘I helped in '71!’ I insist. ‘I bit somebody! And whacked many more around the head with a wrench last year!’

  
‘Trust me Roger, I’m coming to you in a minute.’ My friend glares at me, disgusted. ‘But Deacy, how can you be so... you don’t... you don’t _care_ do you? That you’re a murderer? _Do you_?’

  
John rests his cheek on his hand and shakes his head.

  
‘You _don’t_ care then?’   
John nods, screwing his eyes shut. 

  
_‘You heartless bastard.’_

  
The guitarist takes a step towards him, the bassist spinning on his heels and tearing out the room, the front door slamming in the distance, Freddie sobbing behind me. I go to run after my partner but Bri grabs my arm.

  
_‘No_ Rog...’

  
I turn to him and land a smack on his face, Brian recoiling. I feel Freddie grasp my arms, holding them behind me, still snivelling.

  
_‘Please,_ can we all-’

  
The singer is cut off by a loud, booming voice echoing across the city.

  
_'‘This is not a test_.’'

  
The three of us freeze, my eyes flicking over the back pack by the sofa.

  
The Purge is starting... and John’s there out alone.

  
And unarmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going somewhere  
> Not sure where yet but somewhere.


	3. 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Stabbing (kind of), fires (guess who), swearing.

**Roger**

  
The siren wails as I dash to the front door, Brian grabbing me and pulling me back.

  
‘You are not going out there... not with _him_.’ He snarls, shoving me onto the sofa.

  
‘Well, I was fine the last two years I was out there with him!’ I snap, the guitarist glaring at me. 

  
‘We don’t have any security.’ Freddie gasps. ‘What am I saying – Deaky is out there alone!’

  
‘And unarmed.’ I add, sighing at the back pack on the ground.

  
‘How is that a bad thing?’ Brian mumbles, shaking his head. ‘At least he won’t cause any-’

  
Suddenly, there’s a flash of light followed by the rumble of a V8. I rush to the window – outside, a light blue Bentley roars off into the distance whilst flames engulf a car parked on the pavement. A smile breaks out across my face. I guess the bassist doesn’t need the back pack. Hold on; the burning car... it looks suspiciously like-

  
‘Wait, that’s my car!’ Brian screams, joining me at the window. ‘Did Deacy fucking...’

  
I nod. _Who else would it be_? 

  
‘Roger are you laughing? The taller man stares down at me and I look to the floor.

  
‘Nope.’ 

  
‘I’m _not_ leaving Deaky out there!’ Freddie announces, grabbing my arm and turning me to look at him. ‘Roger, how good are you out there?’ I hear Brian groan at Freddie. The singer gazes at me pleadingly. ‘I know the murder thing is _awful_ – especially Tim - but you’re right – Deaky was protecting you. Now we need to protect him – what did you do last year?’

  
‘Um... all I did was drive.’ I run my hand through my hair. ‘I was a chauffeur for John and his taser.’

  
‘ _Taser_?’ Fred shrieks. ‘Where, _the fuck,_ did he get a taser.’

  
‘He built it...’ The bank debacle crosses my mind. ‘He taught me how to use it.’ I snatch the backpack taking out the device, the other two backing up. ‘Oh relax... there’s six in here.’

  
I throw the bag onto my back, slipping on my whilst Fred flings on one of his more... subtle jackets and a thin white scarf whilst Brian just stares at us, sighing.

  
‘No... Deacy stormed out of here probably knowing damn well that siren was going to start. He chose too, we should let him... i mean he’s just _detonated_ my car’

  
I pause. He is right – John most likely knew what he was doing and can defend himself, but this is _our_ night. I know it’s only been twice, but this whole tearing around London thing is a tradition in my mind – one I can _only_ do with John. The idea of him driving around in a stolen car killing people _without me_ stings a bit. 

  
‘Bri, darling, if you want to stay here you can.’ Fred peeks in the back pack. ‘How do you use these?’ He reaches a hand into the bag.

  
‘NO!’ I yank it away from him. Freddie and I went to a pub that had a shotgun hanging from the ceiling, the landlord said he can have a look and the twat fucking _looked down the barrel of it._ However, on another night, he stopped a bloke harassing a girl by smacking over the head with an umbrella. ‘How about a crowbar?’   
I hand my friend the tool, glancing over at Brian.

  
‘So, are you definitely, letting Freddie Mercury out loose with a crowbar and me, Roger Taylor, with a taser whilst searching for a, most likely, on fire, John Deacon?’  
The guitarist says nothing, so i flick my eyebrows and motion for Freddie – who’s holding the crowbar between his legs, snickering – to leave with me, ignoring the eyes burrowing into the back off my head.

  
The flat is only on the first floor, and the stairs are quiet so getting out the building was easy. However, outside stand a group of youths wearing masks, grasping machetes. Freddie looks between me and the three of them, panicked.

  
‘The fuck do we do now?’ He hisses. ‘What would Deaky do?’

  
I smirk, reaching behind me for a taser. First, I aim for the ‘leader’ – well the one with the biggest sword – and fire the weapon directly at his face. Next to me, Freddie squeals as my victim staggers back, the machete whacking one of his group in the stomach. The third one charges at me, as I grab the frontman’s crowbar, bringing it down against the other man’s blade, knocking it back behind him and seize the opportunity to smack him in the head with the tool. The taser-ee comes at me again, hands out as if to strangle me. My arms fly out in front of me, before I slam my hands against his, pushing him back and to the ground, his head thunking on the concrete. I wait a moment, in case any of them get up and turn to face a stricken Freddie. 

  
‘What... Roger _what_ was that?’ He shivers.

  
‘What John would do.’ I shrug, spinning the crowbar in my hand. 

  
‘And them?’ He points at the men on the floor, one of which I recognise as someone from medical school. 

  
‘He’s a doctor he can deal with it.’ I scan my eyes across the street, searching. It’s empty – except for two cars. One is Brian’s burning one and the other is in the distance. Can’t make out what it is. ‘Get to that car.’ 

  
I hand the singer the crowbar and jog across the road, keeping a close eye out for anyone in coats, one hand hovering above the pocket I shoved the taser in. Soon, I make out the badge of the car.

  
‘Oh, for the love of god!’ I stare at the car, anger swelling inside of me. I’m _not_ taking _that._ I. Am. _Not. Driving. That. Never!_ ‘Go to next street – there might-’

  
_‘Roger,_ I’m not wasting time.’ Fred wanders to the back doors. ‘I’m Her Majesty, I sit in the back seat.’ 

  
‘If you knew the _slightest_ about cars, you’d _know_ that’s _treason!’_ I point at him, feeling as if I’m going to be sick.

  
‘What’s wrong?’ 

  
_‘What’s..._ what do you _mean_ what’s wrong?’ I shriek, convinced the horror show in front of me is gurning. ‘It’s a _fucking Allegro.’_

  
‘That’s an Austin isn’t it?’ The singer glances over his shoulder, tense. ‘Roger, stop complaining and get in.’

  
Defeated, I think back to how John nabs cars – he reaches for the lock through the window, doesn’t he?

Rushing over to the passenger door, I dive at the window to lean in, my head promptly whacking against the glass. 

  
_‘FUCK!’_ I back up, groaning before kicking the car. ‘You’re _cursed,_ you mauve Brummie bastard!’ I slap the roof several times with both hands, ignoring Freddie’s cackling. 

  
‘Yeah, I think Deacy’s hope of rescue is lost now.’

  
I scream and spin around, Brian staring at me witheringly, arms folded. 

  
‘So, you _are_ joining us?’ Fred comments, jamming the crowbar in the door and prising it open, a piercing alarm ringing across the street. I think the devil that lives inside the engine has been summoned. 

  
‘I am _not_ driving that car!’ I repeat. ‘Or going _near_ it – that car is what came out of Beelzebub’s arse after he ate an air raid shelter.’

  
My bandmates ignore me, and Freddie climbs in the backseat, unlocking the driver’s and passenger door. I stay glued to the spot, cocking my head at the Allegro, hoping Brian will get the message.

  
_‘You_ wanted to go out... not me.’ 

  
He holds his hands up, shrugging and opens the passenger door, shifting the seat back. I huff and give in, ripping the door open and flopping in the driver’s seat, lugging the seat forward. I then realise I don’t know how to start it and smack the square – _why is the steering wheel fucking square? It’s a wheel – wheels should be fucking round._

  
‘Hold on, Rog move back.’ Brian leans over me, attacking the dashboard with one of John’s screwdrivers before tearing a panel off it, his elbow jabbing at my stomach. He pulls out the wires – _oh, hotwiring_. The two-wire-sparky-vroom thing. Wait... _sparky._

  
‘Shit, Brian, you’ll set yourself on fire.’ I battle with his curls for a few moments, before holding them back – him connecting two of the wires and that diabolical engine splutters to... it’s not worthy of life. Bri gets back in the passenger seat, motioning for me to drive. Grimacing, I place my hands on the wheel, and start moving, disgusted at the vehicle.

  
‘Where would he go?’ Freddie asks. ‘Did you and Deaky have any plans this year?’

  
The guitarist glares at me.

  
‘Yes, John had a plan.’ I nod.

  
_‘Oh, Jesus_.’ He mutters. 

  
‘Shut up!’ I take a breath. ‘Ferrari garage... We were going to nab a car!’ I try to bring the image of the map back into my mind. ‘It was on Brompton Road. The old one.’

  
‘Turn right.’ Freddie taps my shoulder. ‘Then onto Hyde Park Street and around the edge of Hyde Park itself.’

  
‘How do you know that?’ I gasp. ‘You get lost on one-way walk systems.’

  
‘Well, I know my way around Kensington.’ 

  
The journey to the Ferrari garage was fairly quiet – only one or two murders and fires, nothing that could harm _us._ Well, it _would’ve_ been quiet if we didn’t have the world’s most hysterical, drama queen in the back seat.

  
‘THAT BIN WAS _GLOWING!’_ No, Freddie it’s a street lamp.

  
‘EYES! THERES EYES.’ It’s Marble Arch.

  
‘WHAT’S THAT FUCKING _THING?’_ A leaf.

  
‘IS THAT THE GARAGE?’ No, it’s a building on fire.

  
_‘Rog!’_ Brian slaps my arm, and I realise, slamming on the brakes. In front of us, flames engulf the Ferrari garage... the smell of petrol rising from the blaze. 

  
‘WHY THE _FUCK_ HAVE YOU STOPPED? AREN’T THE CARS GOING TO BLOW?’ 

  
Suddenly, a California flies past, _Yes_ blaring from the stereo and chestnut hair flapping in the wind.

  
‘That was John.’ I screech, restarting the Allegro and powering after the Fezza, explosions coming from the garage behind us. The bassist disappears around the corner, Freddie still screaming. 

  
‘You realise he won’t stop for us.’ Brian’s eyes are wide, clearly not expecting John to go _this_ far either. _I_ expected it though.

  
‘I know he won’t.’ I smile as we follow the Ferrari around another corner. ‘It’s quite a thirsty car.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Austin Allegro is awful.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: swearing, violence and death references.

**Roger**

  
My driving style has always been vigorous yet considerate – mainly because I get past 100 and spin off into oblivion. John's however... clearly isn’t.

  
‘Is he going to slow down?’ Bri dramatically holds onto the oh-shit handle as I go over the roundabout, after the smoking Ferrari. The bassist must be doing 110 by now – however our mechanical turd is only capable of 70 it seems. 

  
The brunette turns onto the motorway, taking out a moped on the way and keeps on accelerating. I can hear the scratching of the driver’s door whilst the bonnet jittering around all over the place. 

  
Part of me knows it’s hopeless to chase him – he’s quicker than us and, if we do catch him, will most likely win whatever fight breaks out between him and Bri. That’s the only reason I’m driving, to stop Brian complaining.

  
I check the speedometer again – still 70. Bri’s going to lecture me if we lose John.

  
‘Speed up you diabolical, Midlands miscreant!’ I screech. 

  
‘No, he needs to slow down!’ Brian repeats, before pausing. ‘Oh, the Austin.’

  
‘In what way is John diabolical?’ I growl, glaring at the guitarist. 

  
‘Nothing about the miscreant I see...’ 

  
I ignore him and focus on the California in front – the roar from the V8 gradually quietening as the gap between us widening. The Allegro makes no effort to breach the 75 mark, the wheels rattling each time we hit a pebble. I do want to catch the bassist - and get in the Fezza with him, leave Bri and Fred with this heap of shit.

  
‘We’re going to lose him.’ Freddie whines. ‘Deaky – it’s _us_.’

  
‘Fred, I think that’s why he’s doing more than twice the speed limit!’ Brian huffs.

  
‘Oh, it’s _legal!’_ I roll my eyes and attempt to force the vehicle above 75. ‘Come on.’

  
‘But it’s not safe!’

  
Suddenly, the Ferrari skids to a halt, the tyres steaming. _What is he doing?_

  
_‘Knew_ he’d stop.’ Brian smiles, a little smugly as I brake, the Allegro squealing like a possessed hamster. 

  
I shake my head, my hair standing on end. We’re only 20 feet away from him, could easily get out and grab him. Surely John _knows_ that – he knows I still don’t know my way around Kensington either. Why hasn’t he just gone through the back streets to shake us off? 

  
‘He’s not stopped for us.’ I whisper. ‘ _Can’t_ have.’ 

  
‘Maybe doesn’t know it’s us... probably thinks we’re mad men after him.’ Fred suggests, my blood running cold.

  
_If John thinks we’re after him..._

  
An engine snarls into life, the road lighting up as the headlights flash. 

  
‘Darling, what’s happ-’

  
‘Shit, he’s gonna kill us.’

Without hesitating, I restart the Austin, splutters coming from everywhere. The Ferrari spins around, facing us, revving loudly. I slam the car into reverse, desperate to make the fucking awful steering work so we can turn around. As the California lunges towards us, I force the pedal into the carpet, the Austin surging forward at a speed and angle I can’t handle. 

  
All three of us shriek as the Allegro careers off the motorway, flying down a side street, sideways. It’s gliding onto someone’s lawn that makes the car stop, Freddie falling over in the back seats as the Ferrari roars past the street, continuing on the main road. I brush off the shock off the crash and drive back to the motorway but it’s too late. 

  
The Ferrari is gone - John’s gone. Off to do _our_ thing by himself.

  
I stop the car, smacking the wheel in frustration and screaming. I can feel my eyes getting watery, my throat clogging. 

  
‘If you weren’t so shitty, we’d have got him! I’d be in a Ferrari!’ 

  
Brian scoffs.

  
‘Roger, is that really your biggest problem?’ He stares at me. ‘Deacy is in the fancy car not you?’

  
‘We were meant to take it _together!’_ I holler. ‘This is _our_ thing!’

  
‘What killing your bandmates?’ The guitarist glances out the window. ‘Rog, let’s go back to mine and Freddie’s, barricade the doors and let no one in.’

  
I shake my head, trying so hard not to cry. I’m not crying in front of those two.

  
‘No _! I want John_!’ 

  
‘He tried to kill us!’ I recoil at his tone. ‘Now drive before I drag you out that seat and drive myself.’

  
‘NO!’ _Blimey, didn’t know I could go that high_. ‘No, if you two want to go back, let me out the car – it’s shit, anyway – and let me find John on foot!’

  
‘Roger, don’t be stupid.’ Freddie chimes in. ‘That car is faster than us and we have no idea where Deaky could’ve gone-’

  
‘There’s places.’ I interrupt, wracking my brain for memories of the last two Purges. ‘Sandford... we were going to go to Sandford.’ 

  
‘That’s in Bristol for fucks sake!’ 

  
‘Long story, but we _need_ to get going.’ 

  
Brian snatches my wrists, forcing me to face him for what feels like the billionth time tonight.

  
‘Deacy tried to kill us!’ His eyes seem to plead with me. 

  
‘Didn’t know it was _us.’_ I insist, blinking back tears.

  
‘When the headlights hit us, he must’ve known.’ Fred mumbles. ‘Can hardly miss _that.’_ He points a black-nail-painted finger at Brian’s curls. 

  
‘Maybe the glare was-’

  
‘ROGER TAYLOR, JUST DRIVE!’ Brian smacks me around the face. ‘FORGET HIM! I’m _not_ letting him be part of our lives anymore!’

  
‘YOU CU-’

  
‘Both of you!’ Freddie holds his hands up at us. ‘Roger, drive – Bri shut the fuck up!’ The singer flops back in his seat, arms folded. 

  
‘Just one more thing.’ The guitarist takes my still clenched hand. ‘I know you don’t want to hear it but Deacy... we _can’t_ let him back.’

  
My free hand connects with his cheek, the frontman shoving us apart, glowering. I return the stare, not believing my bandmates.

  
‘Freddie, you don’t agree with him.’ I snarl. ‘John – Deaky is staying with me whether _he_ likes it or not.’ 

  
‘Is _he_ me or John?’ Brian snaps. ‘Both fit! He tried to kill you.’

  
‘ _No, he didn’t_!’

  
‘He drove at us! He saw my hair and tried to kill us’ 

  
Tears stream down my cheeks and I lose it.

  
‘HE TRIED TO KILL _YOU_ BECAUSE HE _HATES YOU_ BUT HE _LOVES ME!’_

  
‘Darling, drive.’ 

  
I punch the driver side window, grabbing the steering wheel and kicking the dashboard.

  
‘Roger, he’s a killer!’ 

  
‘To protect me!’ 

  
My throat is dry, my face burning.

  
_‘Roger,_ drive.’

  
‘John loves me – he’d never hurt me!’

  
‘Get it through your thick skull – he’s a _murderer!’_

  
‘WELL, HE’S _MY_ MURDERER!’

  
‘ROGER DRIVE!’

  
‘NO FREDDIE! JOHN IS MY PARTNER AND I WON’T LEAVE HIM!’

  
‘ROGER FUCKING TAYLOR _FUCKING DRIVE_!’ 

  
Freddie shakes me by the shoulders, turning me to face the road ahead.

  
‘Oh, for the love of god!’

  
In front of us stand five people in pac-a-macs, armed with axes. 

  
I don’t wait another moment, I start driving, powering away from them down the motorway.

  
‘Who are they?’ Freddie asks, screaming.

  
‘Remember the-’

  
‘ _They’re following us_!’ He squeals again.

  
Behind us looms a Jensen Interceptor, the pac-a-macs at the wheel. I bury the pedal into the carpet, gripping the ice-cold wheel.

  
‘Who _are_ they?’

  
‘Well I tried to tell you so...’

  
‘WHO ARE THEY?’ Brian whacks my arm.

  
‘Remember the anoraks?’ 

  
‘ _Oh my god_!’ Freddie shoves his face in his hands. 'Not those maniacs.'

  
I sigh, turning onto a side street. 

  
‘Every year they’ve followed John and I, in an array of coats. John usually fends them off but _someone_ fucked that up!’

  
‘Come on, that was him.’

  
‘SHUT UP!’ I take a breath, glancing at the approaching macs. ‘Freddie do you still have a crowbar?’ The singer fumbles under a seat and produces the tool. ‘roll down the window, lean out and throw it at the windscreen.’

  
‘Rog, i _can’t,_ you _know_ I can’t!’ He wails. ‘I have no aim.’

  
‘Our toilet is evidence for that.’ Bri quips, looking over at me. 

  
‘Bri, instead of making remarks – can you drive?’ I unplug my seatbelt, waiting for the guitarist to take the wheel.

  
‘Are you mad?’ He shakes his head, grabbing the wheel as I let go, winding down the window. 

  
‘Fred, give me the crowbar. Bri, get in my seat.’

  
I think back to last year, John’s stunt with the crowbar and how exactly he got out the window. I grasp the roof with my left hand, pushing myself up and swinging my leg out the window. The harsh wind nips at my face, my hair flapping over my face. I try to flick it away, wobbling on the door.

  
‘You okay, Rog?’ Fred hold out the crowbar.

  
‘Yeah fine.’ I nod, clinging onto the dashboard with my right hand and reaching for the tool with the other.

  
It’s at this moment I realise why it was John who did this last year. He can keep calm, stay steady, keep balanced – focus no matter what the situation. I however, can’t.

  
Before I can react, my leg slides down the door, my hands flailing as gravity takes over – the tarmac getting closer; headlights getting brighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Return of the Mac  
> Have the coat gang got old yet?


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who's that behind the mac?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Swearing, violence references, death reference, fire, mild injury.

**Roger**

The screeching of the Allegro’s tyres must be the single most grating noise on Earth – and not the noise i wanted to hear before death. I’m sure that’s where I’m heading as I’m flung out the window, the freezing Earls Court wind rippling through my shirt. I land on my shoulder, rolling across the road – a scream ringing out along with the clattering of the crowbar. I can’t tell if it’s my scream or not due to the pain in my arm eclipsing my train of thought. I lay there, staring at the cloudy night sky, breaths quick and sharp.

  
‘ROGER – GET UP!’ 

  
I look to the side, my vision taken out by a white light. _Is this it? Was that the heavens calling_? _I’m only 24!_

  
The light then turns into two separate ones, then four – a long bonnet heading straight for me.

  
_‘ROG!’_

  
Someone grabs me under the arms, tugging me briskly out of the way of the Interceptor and I’m bundled into the back of a car. The distinct whiff of mildew knocks me back to my senses as i look around, meeting the worried eyes of Freddie. 

  
‘Darling, are you alright?’

  
The Austin surges forward, I glance over to the driver’s seat, Brian’s gaze flicking between the road in front and the Jensen on our tail.

  
‘My arm hurts.’ I glance at my shoulder, pushing down my shirt to unveil a shallow graze across my arm. ‘Will just need clean – Bri turn left.’

  
The pac-a-macs power towards the side of us, the guitarist pushing the steering beyond its limits. 

  
‘I get why you resented this car now.’ He mumbles as we turn onto a B-road, the pac-a-macs not leaving the rear-view mirror. ‘Know how to shake them off?’

  
‘John shouted at me to weave through the estates.’ I sigh. ‘But he knows London like the back of his hand – could get us back on route.’

  
‘Do we even _have_ a route?’ Fred looks over his shoulder. 

  
‘Yeah we’re going back to the flat – _no_ arguments.’ Brian states. 

  
‘You two can, I’m going out again.’ I retort, earning eye rolls from both of them.

  
‘As much as I want to find Deaky, he’s a little... unpredictable at the moment.’

  
Part of me wants to argue that I know the bassist, and know he’s unpredictable because he always is – and he’s unarmed and that car will run out of fuel eventually. However, arguing will just distract Brian from the main issue here – the maniacs in pac-a-macs following us no matter how many corners we take. 

  
‘Also, Roger dear, he could be anywhere now. Where will you go?’

  
‘If we go directly to the flat, they’ll follow us upstairs.’ I point out. ‘Shake them off then go.’

  
‘And _all three_ of us barricade ourselves in.’ Brian lets out an irritated growl at the Allegro. 

  
‘Roger, any idea why Deaky blew up the garage?’ The singer stares out the window, drumming his fingers of the door.

  
‘And my car.’ The guitarist shakes his head. 

  
‘Your car would’ve been out of anger,’ I sigh, ‘and the garage was most... he probably ran into some people and blew the place like he did with the Aston garage.’

  
The Austin suddenly brakes, Brian spinning around in his seat.

  
‘ _That was you two_?’ 

  
Lights flash behind us.

  
‘KEEP DRIVING!’ I shriek.

  
He looks past me, his eyes widening and turns back to the road, setting off again before the inevitable.

  
‘You and Deacy disappeared the same night the Aston garage blew up,’ He starts, ‘you said it was _just_ to steal an Aston-’

  
‘I _never_ said the word _just.’_

  
‘Which one of you did it?’ Freddie asks, forehead resting on his palm. 

  
‘We were driving a Vauxhall and Tim and his mates chased us... then John grabbed the wheel and crashed us into the garage doors. Then Tim’s mate moved a plank and brought the roof down.’

  
‘Wait is that what Deacy meant by killing...’ My friend trails off.

  
‘Not quite. I thought John was dead and was crying then Tim climbed into the car with an axe, went to kill me then John leapt up with a taser and electrocuted him. Went for his neck – meant to kill him... it was the third time that night Tim tried to hurt us.’ 

  
‘So... Tim was after you? Deacy didn’t just see him and _bang!’_

  
‘No... I _tried_ to tell you.’ I huff, the flashing of the Interceptor’s lights starting to annoy me.

  
‘What about the blowing?’ Freddie pauses, smirking for a second. 

  
‘We got out the car, went to the showroom which was intact, nabbed an Aston then John said he needed to clear a path.’ I snigger at the memory. ‘He was gone for a while, then came back and told me to drive. Drove outside and boom!’ Ahead I see a junction for Queen’s Gate. ‘ _Onto there!_ ’

  
Brian takes a second to respond – still processing my revelations - before a yellow light blinks in the window. 

  
‘You are _not_ indicating!’ I scream, lunging forward and swinging us to the left, down a housing estate.

  
 _‘FUCKING_ HELL ROG?’ He holds his hands up, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. ‘It’s an automatic thing for me!’

  
I climb over to the passenger seat, keeping a close eye on Brian.

  
‘But if he indicated right then they’d go right, right?’ Freddie frowns, prompting me to check the mirror.

  
‘That’s what they think we wanted them to think.’ I groan as the Jensen Interceptor reappears.

  
‘Last year, and the year before, did _you_ do anything to fend people off or was it _just_ Deaky?’

  
’71 I bit someone and last year smacked people with wrenches however on both occasions him and I...’ I smile slightly. ‘We’re a _team.’_

  
‘Do you know how to fire a taser though?’ Fred continues.

  
‘Not in a moving vehicle no... again-’

  
‘That was for the Archbishop of Canarchy.’ Brian mumbles. 

  
‘Surely you mean Arch _deacon_?’ Freddie quips.

  
‘Just shake them off.’ I sigh, looking out for turn offs. Soon, something very familiar comes into view; something familiar to Brian and Freddie too... especially on this night.

  
‘Is that Hyde Park?’ The singer squints at the trees before his mouth drops open. 

  
‘Go through there? Got rid of them last time.’ I suggest. ‘No screaming at leaves Fred.’

  
He smacks my arm as we career into the park, the guitarist sticking firmly to the paths. 

  
‘Oh, come on, Bri! Go off-ro... _off-path_!’ I whine.

  
‘No, it’ll damage the grass!’ He snaps, glaring at me. ‘And it’s night, there’ll be badgers out too, could hit one.’ He shivers.

  
I huff running a hand through my hair as the pac-a-macs approach again. They’re just following us, making no attempt to ram us off or stop us. Just following. In a way that’s more frightening than actually being attacked.

  
How often do they follow us? Just this night? The month before? All the time?

  
Who are they? What do they want from us? From _me?_ Their main target for 4 Purges now!

  
Then, I have an idea. 

  
‘Pull over.’ I command, Brian glancing at me in confusion. ‘Fucks sake, pull over... they're after _me_ so i'll sort it.'

  
My friend reluctantly parks next to Marble Arch and I step out of the Austin, taking the remaining crowbar with me. I motion for the other two to stay in the car before facing the Interceptor, the pac-a-macs exiting their vehicle too. 

  
‘Who are you?’ I shout.

  
‘Oh, you know us...’ The lead pac-a-mac growls. ‘You _know_ us!’

  
‘Ok then... who am I?’ I fold my arms, trying to stare them down although their masks kind of get in the way.

  
‘No pissing about!’ The pac-a-mac yells. ‘You will pay... you will pay Liz!’

  
I pause, guffawing floating from the Austin.

  
‘My name... is Roger.’ I state. ‘I am a man.’

  
The pac-a-mac removes their mask, revealing a confused looking woman in her mid-twenties.

  
‘You’re not Elizabeth? From the college?’ She asks. 

  
‘No. Sorry, what’s happening?’ 

  
‘In ’68 Elizabeth – her sister-’ She points at one of the gang members, ‘slept with my brother, her boyfriend.’ Points at another. 

  
‘But in 71 you said you recognise _him_ and pointed at _me?’_

  
‘Yeah I did... presumed Liz was short for Lesley or something.’ A girl at the back says. ‘He’s a bloke, _clearly.’_

  
The lead pac-a-mac studies me closer, cocking her head. 

  
‘Yeah, you’re not Liz.’ She nods. ‘My apologies.’

  
The lot of them turn back to the Interceptor. 

  
‘It’s just you look like her and were in the college toilets... by the way who’s that edgy one who threw a crowbar at us? He’s really cool, is he single.’

  
‘No.’ I snap.

  
‘Oh, that girl is _lucky!’_

  
‘No... she’s called Liz.’ I flick my eyebrows and wander back to the Austin, Brian and Fred snickering. 

  
‘All this because you look and sound like a girl!’ Bri shrieks. 

  
‘I’m calling you Liz from now on.’ Freddie adds. 

  
I ignore them and motion for the guitarist to drive. 

  
‘So, I guess you two want to go back to the flat?’ That stops them laughing. 

  
‘All _three_ of us are going back to the flat.’ Brian glowers at me. ‘I know the way if we go on Kensington High Street.’

  
‘Please Rog.’

  
 _‘You_ can go back to the flat but I’m not staying.’ I affirm. _‘Understood?_ I’m not leaving John alone.’

  
‘He’d have been ‘missing’ for 4 hours by the time we get to the flat.’ Freddie groans. ‘Could be way out of the City by now.’

  
I shake my head.

  
‘No, he wouldn’t do that.’ I blink back tears, the image of the bassist tearing across South England having the time of his life without me stabbing me in the gut.   
We’re silent the entire journey, the streets surprisingly quiet – even the High Street, except for one blazing pub. 

  
I look closely – it’s the pub we were meant to play at the other month, but got kicked out because the landlady didn’t want ‘ _someone like Freddie_ ’ playing in front of her kids or something. I also remember John being quite interested in how much of the building was made from wood... and how much was varnished... not a lot.

  
‘I think we’re getting warmer.’ I smile, the tyre marks on the road accompanied by embers confirming it. ‘Follow those tracks! We’ll find him!’

  
 _‘No_ Roger.’ Brian sighs, heading onto a bridge, streetlamps illuminating the tracks beneath. ‘Deacy doesn’t want...’ The Austin grinds to a halt, the writers face turning into that of terror. ‘Oh no... oh _shit no...’_

  
He exits the car, closely followed by the singer and I, rushing towards the wall of the bridge – several bricks missing from the top. My friend shouts as he looks over the edge, Freddie glancing over and screaming, a hand flying over his mouth.

  
I screw my eyes shut, slowly approaching the wall, dread rising within me, shivering in fear. My hand finds the cold, rough bricks, as I force my eyes open, my mouth falling open to scream but not even a breath coming out.

  
Below us lies a charred and battered Ferrari California, surrounded by glass, smoke rising from the wreckage. 

  
‘Maybe it isn’t _his?’_ Freddie sniffs.

  
Brian places a hand on the frontman’s shoulder, pointing down. I follow his finger to the edge of the California, where waves of chestnut hair flutter in the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is an anti-climax to the coat gang.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Fires, explosions, injury, swearing, violence, death references, the usual and one drug reference.

**Roger**  
I’m frozen. My throat dry, my breaths shallow. That can’t be John... he wouldn’t crash. Not like this. 

  
‘There’s a way down over there.’ Brian dashes off the bridge to the edge of the platform, which - for the human lamppost at least - isn’t too high. A shaking Freddie and I follow, the guitarist helping us down onto the tracks before we approach the wreckage.

  
The Ferrari is upside down, its underside smoking and the lengthy bonnet hanging open, something trickling onto the ground. The distinct smell of fuel fills the air as I slowly step towards the vehicle. 

  
‘Careful Rog... could blow any second.’ Brian warns. 

  
‘Could at least get him out before it does.’ I snap, each step getting heavier. I crouch down, peering under the bonnet. All I can see is a clump of brunette hair – definitely John’s – caught on the bonnet. It’s what we saw from the bridge but I can’t see the bassist himself, however, every part of my brain is screaming that he’s there. 

  
Letting out a sob, I stand and grab the side of the car, pushing as hard as I can.

  
‘Roger?’ Freddie rushes to my side. ‘Roger, dear, is he there?’

  
_‘I don’t kno_ w.’ I cry. ‘Help me flip this.’

  
The singer nods and grasps the door, squealing to lift the vehicle.

  
‘Don’t be so fucking ridiculous.’ Brian sighs, glancing under the car, taking out a mini torch from his pocket. ‘You can’t roll it – it’s literally a tonne. Anyway, if you roll it that way, you’ll crush him.’ All three of us wince at his words. ‘Sorry, shouldn’t have said that.’ 

  
He rushes to the other side of the California, kneeling down to look for the bassist again, shining the torch under the car.

  
‘Can you see him?’ Freddie asks, butting past me to get to Brian, the guitarist holding out his hand, motioning for him to stop.

  
‘No, I can’t, but when I _can,_ you two stay away.’ He pauses. ‘Just in case.’

  
‘In case of _what,_ darling?

  
I take Freddie’s hand, pulling him back. 

  
‘In case he’s really...’ I trail off, not wanting to even _think_ about what state our dear John is in. _How long has he been here?_ Whilst we were arguing, my partner was here - trapped, cold and alone. 

  
‘Come on, Deacy, _please.’_ I realise the guitarist’s voice is laced with guilt. ‘I’m so sorry. Should’ve listened to you... and Rog.’

  
Part of me wants to run over and strangle him for yelling at John earlier, for not letting me go after him soon enough, and for holding me back all night but I know there’s no point. 

  
I look at Freddie, his hand clasped over his mouth and glassy eyes staring to the ground as another sob escapes me. 

  
‘Rog...’ I turn as Brian peeks over the Ferrari. ‘There isn’t anything... he’s not under there.’

  
Cocking my head, I dart to where the guitarist is knelt, damn nearly diving beneath the vehicle. He’s right – there’s no body there.

  
‘But the... how did...’ I glance to where the strands of hair are, realising they’re just caught on the bonnet. ‘But that _is_ his hair... and so is this.’ I reach over to where a thin leather jacket lays discarded next to the vehicle.

  
‘He must’ve got out.’ Freddie lets out a sigh of relief.

  
‘Fred, Deacy is tough but not _that_ tough.’ Brian looks up at the bridge. ‘And if his hair is over there – what 8 feet from the driver’s seat – he must’ve been thrown out. I don’t think someone immeditley walks away from that.’

  
‘He did in 71.’ I muse, my bandmates glaring at me.

  
‘I’m sorry, _when_ were you going to tell me this?’ The frontman snaps.

  
‘We were driving away from the coat gang, I hit a speed hump and he flew out the windscreen. Woke up a while later and he was fine.’

  
‘You threw _my_ precious Deaky out a _window?’_ Fred screeches, a snort coming from behind us.

  
‘Still, Roger, there’s flying out a car windscreen and then there’s smacking into train tracks from 35 feet.’ Brian states. ‘He’s probably on the tracks somewhere... or landed on the platform.’

  
‘Or someone got here first.’ I shiver at the thought of someone taking John, especially if he’s not capable of defending himself. 

  
‘Can’t believe you – on _two_ occasions – nearly killed Deaky with a car.’ 

  
‘It was _two_ cars. He got flung out the _Aston.’_ I sniff. 

  
‘Is there anything else we need to know, dear?’

  
‘No...’ There’s snickering behind me. ‘Except for John robbing a bank and the two of us spending a night at the Ritz.’

  
Freddie’s mouth drops open, eyes wide as Bri stares at me, disappointed.

  
_Hold on_... if they’re not laughing – who is?

  
I spin around, my eyes landing on a gloomy figure beneath the bridge, leant against the wall, one leg crossed over the other. Snatching Brian’s torch, I pan it across to the shadow, revealing a pale, blood streaked face framed by dishevelled chestnut hair.

  
_‘John?’_

  
Instantly the bassist turns and bolts out the tunnel, platforms clacking against the tracks. 

  
‘DEAKY?’

  
The three of us chase after him, shouting at him to wait. He doesn’t, keeps glancing over his shoulder at us, clutching his left arm.

  
_‘_ I think he’s hurt.’ Brian calls over, a few paces in front of Fred and I and not that far from catching up with the bassist. ‘Deacy, _wait,_ plea-’

  
Suddenly, there’s an earth trembling bang, the guitarist, Freddie and I diving to the ground as the Ferrari bursts into flames, part of the bonnet flying upwards to the bridge. I look back to where my partner was running, just as he attempts to push himself up onto the platform, letting out a pained whine. 

  
I regain my footing, my other bandmates still staring in fear at the blazing car, and dart to John, the brunette sobbing as he tries to climb onto the concrete again, blood trickling from his arm, his hair matted against his shoulder and neck. I look closer, he’s got something in his forearm. Just as I’m about to reach him, John scrambles onto the platform, an ear-piercing scream ringing out along with a sickening _crack_. The noise makes me shriek in horror, as he stands again, glancing down at me. As I reach the platform, he pauses, then his gaze travels past me, eyes widening before staggering backwards, his head shaking violently.

  
_‘John, wait_!’ I beg, as Brian joins me. ‘Leg up?’

  
The guitarist ducks down before helping me onto the concrete, my hand stinging where the rough grit digs in.

  
‘You go ahead, I’ll coax Freddie over.’ I look over to where the singer sits, in the middle of the tracks, knees pulled to his chest, face buried into his legs. ‘Deacy’s scream.’

  
I nod, empathising with the singer – the feeling that John being hurt is down to us, eating me up inside too – before turning to follow the bassist, just catching him vanishing around a corner.

  
_‘John!’_ I’m fairly sure I hit an A5 as I run after him, the brunette careering down the street. _How the hell is he going so fast in those shoes?_

  
As he hurtles onto Hammersmith Road, my bandmates come up behind me, tears streaming down Freddie’s face.

  
‘DEAKY!’ My friend sounds desperate. ‘Darling, I’m _sorry.’_

  
‘Deacy, I get it now! You were protecting Roger.’

  
‘ _C’mon, honey_.’ 

  
But it’s hopeless – he keeps running, almost as if he can’t stop.

  
I’m already a little breathless, so are the other two. How long will he keep this up? He’s losing a lot of blood too.

  
‘John, _stop_ – for _me_ at least!’ I screech. ‘These two can fuck off and it’ll just be _us?’_

_‘NO!_ I want to hug him!’ Freddie retorts, the bassist -somehow - increasing his speed. _‘Fucking hell,_ did he have steroid infused Weetabix or something this morning?’

  
The bassist suddenly darts into a side street.

  
‘I’ll follow him direct, you two take the pavements.’ I order, sprinting onto a dimly lit Earsby Street. ‘Bri, have you still got that torch?’

  
‘You have it you twat!’

  
I reach into my pocket, removing the torch and point it in the direction of the bassist, loud cackling coming from the side of the road. I freeze as two men leap out of the shadows, one grabbing John around the waist and the other holding his arms behind his back, gripping his injured arm tightly, my partner wailing.

  
‘Not so fast.’ One of the men snarls, producing an axe, my blood running cold. I want to charge forward and kill the two of them for even coming near John, but my feet are glued to the tarmac. 

  
I don’t know if it's out of fear or anticipation... I soon find out.

  
John flicks his left leg up, booting the axe wielder in the crotch before freeing his good arm and grabbing the weapon, slamming the other man around the head with the handle.

  
‘And... there he is...’ I smile, a small chuckle escaping me. My happiness is short lived, however, as the axe clatters to the ground and John dashes further down the street, ducking into another street. ‘Oh, for _fucks_ sake, _come on!’_

  
Brian rushes past me, skidding to a halt around where the bassist went.

  
_‘Shit.’_

  
I follow him into the side street, the brunette is nowhere to be seen as we emerge onto Avonmore Road.

  
‘I’ll go this way, you two down there.’ I command, heading to the right. ‘If you get into trouble, _crotch and temple_!’

  
My feet screaming for mercy, I continue down the road, heading onto several streets before ending up on the motorway, utterly clueless to where I am and to where my partner is.

  
_‘JOHN?’_ I cry, eyes darting all over the place. 

  
Behind me there’s footsteps, so I spin around, beige platforms disappearing into a side street. 

  
_‘WAIT!’_

  
I head back the way I came, determined not to lose track of him this time and turn onto the street, my partner’s chestnut waves flying out behind him in the wind. I feel like I’m going to pass out, also noticing the bassist is slowing a little. Still quicker than me though.

  
Why is he running from us? From _me?_

  
‘How is he _still_ going in those heels?’ 

  
I screech as Freddie appears next to me, puffed out. 

  
‘The _fuck_ did you get here?’ I squeak, focusing on John again. He’s gone right down to a limp now... swaying a little. _‘John?’_

  
It was going to happen. His legs give way before he collapses to the ground, a tall figure diving towards him, grabbing him under the arms.

  
‘Shh... Deacy... I’ve got you... sorry, I’m _so sorry.’_

  
I kneel next to my partner, his head resting in Bri’s lap, eyes open a fraction and blood mixed with sweat tickling down his cheek. I stroke his hair gently, leaning over and planting a gentle kiss just next to his dry lips, his eyelids fluttering.

  
‘Roger...?’ He whispers, breaths quickening against my cheek.

  
‘I’m here John.’ I shush, pecking him again, ignoring the confused looks from the other two. 

  
‘I tried to _kill_ you... I-’

  
I shake my head, pressing my lips to his, the bassist releasing a soft whimper.

  
‘John... it’d be an _honour_ to be killed by you.’ I cup his cheek, his eyes finally meeting mine. ‘Now... what was all that about?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could never kill off Deaky!


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter feels rushed it's because I've flung two chapters together so each work in this series had 7 chapters. It if went 7 7 8 I wouldn't be able to look at my works without screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who have stuck with this nonsense for 7 chapters and thank you for reading.  
> WARNINGS: Swearing, quite a lot, sex references, injury, stabbing, explosions.

**Roger**

  
Running my hand up and down his arm, I sit up, becoming a little uncomfortable on the tarmac, John’s hand flying out to grab mine.

  
‘It’s alright, I’m not going anywhere.’ I laugh, gazing at him. His hair is a mess, speckled with embers and debris. His left cheek has a small gash on it, a graze stretching from his forehead to jaw, skin deathly pale, eyes glassy and pained. I glance down, his left arm tucked close against his waist, caked in blood. ‘Can I have a look? I went to med school – remember?’ 

  
He nods as I carefully bring his arm towards me, the brunette sitting up, whimpering, whilst, i hold his wrist and elbow with the tips of my fingers. 

  
‘Fred, can you hold this, _exactly_ how I’m doing.’ I look over at the singer, his jaw practically touching the floor. _‘Please..._ we need to help him.’

  
‘I’ll do it,’ Brian butts in, delicately taking the John’s arm from me, my partner cocking his head to the side, staring at the guitarist in surprise. I continue to study the battered arm. Gently, I dab my hands along the sides, hisses escaping John’s cracked lips, the bassist screaming when I reach the middle of his arm, something moving within the wound. Immediately, I remove my hands, resting one on his shoulder, another wail ringing out. 

  
_‘Shit,_ is it your shoulder too?’ I lean forward, landing a quick peck on his cheek, and brush his damp hair back, tugging down his shirt cautiously. My other bandmates wince as a shard of metal disappearing into the bassist’s backis revealed, glinting in the torchlight. 

  
‘Oh, darling, that must be awful.’ Freddie dashes to his side, stroking the area around the injury.

  
_‘Careful_ Fred,’ I snap, ‘and _don’t-’_

  
It’s too late – he yanks at the metal, not anticipating the _size_ of it, or a sudden dent. The brunette shrieks a string of expletives toward Freddie as the singer twists the object, widening the cut as - what looks like - part of an ashtray, slips out. 

  
‘WHY DID YOU PULL IT OUT?’ I yell, eyes widening at the now thicker stream of blood pouring from the wound.

  
‘Was I not meant to?’ Fred frowns, glancing at the object. I nod, growling a little. ‘Sorry.’

  
Now, I’ve let out some screams in my life – I've frightened Brian half to death with one once because he thought we’d set off a security alarm. However, I’d say I sound like an angelic car alarm...   
_Not_ a car alarm being exorcised – which is exactly what John sounds like when an ashtray is _shoved back into his shoulder._

  
‘FREDDIE _FUCKING_ MERCURY WHAT THE _FUCK!’_ The bassist screeches even more as tears enter the cut on his face. _‘WHY DID...?_ WHY?’

  
_‘He_ said I shouldn’t take it out.’

  
‘NOT TO PUT IT _BACK IN AGAIN!’_ I push the singer away from my partner, glaring. _‘Don’t_ come near him again.’

  
Thankfully, Freddie’s ridiculous actions haven’t caused too much damage, so I throw off my shirt, wrapping it around the ashtray and tying it to John. He whines, glaring at me. 

  
‘Sorry... you did brilliantly.’ I smile, quickly kissing him again. ‘Need to sort your arm now.’

  
Despite the ashtray debacle, Brian’s kept hold of the bassist’s arm, lifting it a little for me.

  
‘GIRLS, OVER THERE.’

  
All four of us freeze, looking over to the end of the street. Three young girls – can’t be more than 14 – stand there, staring at us. 

  
‘Siobhan, they’ve already killed someone – look.’ One sighs.

  
‘No, we haven’t!’ Freddie laughs. ‘He’s our mate, we’re not out to kill.’ 

  
‘Oh... so you’re not armed.’ 

  
I grab Freddie’s arm.

  
_‘Don’t_ answ-’

  
‘No, we’re not, it’s fine.’ Brian, John and I glower at the singer.

  
‘They’re not armed, Sara.’ The girl squeals in delight. ‘C’mon Keren.’ 

  
Siobhan – I presume – produces a chainsaw, revving it whilst the others take out garden rakes. We don’t hesitate – just run, Brian slinging John over his shoulder.

  
‘Sorry if that hurt Deacy.’ 

  
The girls hot on our tail, we bolt down the street, Freddie shrieking every time the chainsaw growls as I keep a lookout for a car. 

  
‘Rog, find a car.’ Brian shouts. ‘I’ll drive, you in the back with Deacy.’ 

  
‘Good.’ I reply, turning onto a main road – there’s _got_ to be something down here... there is. ‘Why do you hate me, life?’

  
_‘NO!_ I’m not bleeding out in Lucifer’s portaloo!’ John hollers as we approach a Morris Marina, its doors wide open but not in any way inviting. The guitarist hands the thrashing bassist to me, bile rising in my throat.

  
‘I don’t want you to bleed out in a fucking Marina either.’ I agree. 

  
‘GET IN, _NOW!’_ Brian snaps, already fiddling with the wires in the dashboard. I look back down the road, the three girls barrelling towards us. Rolling my eyes, I carefully place John in the backseat before hopping in myself, Brian instantly reversing – at around 5 miles an hour. ‘FOR _GODS_ SAKE!’

  
‘As long as we’re faster than they can run, right?’ Freddie points out, as the car swings around, the girls already little dots in the rear-view mirror.  
I shake my head at them and cradle the bassist in my arms, holding him close.

  
‘Missed you.’ I whisper. ‘Been... interesting without you.’ 

  
He doesn’t answer – but that’s because of Brian.

  
‘Not as interesting as what just happened with you two, though.’ He glances at the two of us in the rear-view mirror. ‘Is this the _real_ reason you moved out?’

  
‘Trust me Bri, _you’re_ the reason for that.’ John snaps, the guitarist rolling his eyes.

  
‘How long?’ He asks. ’I mean, I guessed the second I found you two cuddling on Christmas morning-’

  
‘ _You knew_?’ The frontman screeches. 

  
‘Did you, Bri?’ I push.

  
‘Yes, course I knew, just decided not to say anything, but how long?’

  
‘Um... since last Purge.’ I cough, bracing myself for Sergeant Mercury to lay down Section 51 of the Deaky Protection Law 1971.

  
‘Are you...’ Fred starts, turning in his seat. ‘Are you telling me I’ve missed your anniversary?’ He cries, his face a mix of joy and... guilt almost. ‘Deaky, darling, did you think I’d react badly? To you being... well, not straight.’

  
‘No... I thought you’d go all protective mother on me... as usual.’ John sighs. ‘Didn’t want you to kill Roger. That’s my job... also you haven’t missed our anniversary, that’s tomorrow. We got together the morning after the Purge.’

  
‘I’m still amazed we went 12 months, _him_ making dirty remarks about me constantly, and _you,_ Freddie Mercury never guessed.’ I snigger. ‘Also, did you not wonder why I left the airbed out of John’s room when we were sharing?’

  
‘Well, the flat is freezing sometimes... I’ve snuck into Bri’s bed when it’s cold sometimes.’

  
There’s silence, all three of us staring at the singer. 

  
‘Anyway... John can I look at your arm again.’ I take his hand, gently pulling his arm over to me. ‘Good...’ It’s not good though. All over his arms are grazes and deep cuts however what stands out – no sticks out - is his bone. Softly, I run my finger along the raw skin next to the protrusion, the bassist yelping. ‘Freddie can you check the glovebox for a first aid kit... also I need a torch.’

  
The singer opens the compartment, several empty Werther’s packets tumbling out as he rifles through it.

  
‘Just a load of crisps and a few cloths.’ He shrugs. _‘Ooo,_ vodka!’

  
_‘PERFECT!’_ I scream. ‘I need the vodka and cloths... give me your scarf too.’

  
Freddie looks over at me, betrayed.

  
‘You want _me_ to get _this_ scarf _covered_ in blood and vodka?’

  
‘It’s the best you can do after _stabbing me with an ashtray!_ ’ John snarls.

  
Reluctantly, Freddie flings his scarf at me, then passes me the cloths and vodka.

  
‘Bri, slow down a little.’ I direct, tearing some of the cloths in half and soaking another with the vodka and turning to the bassist. ‘This shouldn’t hurt.’ I lie, pressing it against the torn skin.

  
_‘SHIT,_ WHAT ARE YOU-’

  
‘I know... sorry.’ I focus on his arm, his furious eyes burning through my skull.

  
‘Fuck _you... fuck_ Ferrari... _fuck_ bridges.’ He hisses, before I pack around the bone, tying the makeshift bandage in place with the torn cloths. ‘ROGER, YOU _COCK.’_

  
‘Sorry, John.’ I repeat, ignoring Bri and Freddie’s cackles as I begin fashioning a sling out of the scarf. 

  
_‘Fuck_ the cloths... _fuck those cloths_.’

  
‘I know...’

  
‘Go _fuck_ The Earl Clothface of Clothington in his _clothy arse,_ you cloth cock! No fuck _yourself_ with the cloth... you _cocking_ cloth cu- _SHIT!’_

  
‘John, why am _I_ getting more abuse from you than the Archbishop of Canter _stabby_ over there?’ I exclaim, the brunette next to me glaring.

  
_‘You_ are doing it in a _Morris Marina_.’ He growls. ‘My life is already hell in this heap of crap without a CLOTH COCK setting my bone on fire with vodka!’

  
I sigh, adjusting the sling before going to wrap my arm around his shoulders, yet _more_ expletives coming my way when I nudge the ashtray.

  
‘How about the Archbishop of _Cloth_ turbury?’ Brian snickers as the bassist leans back in his seat.

  
‘Well I’m being treated by the Archbishop of _Cunt_ erbury.’

  
Rolling my eyes, I glance out the window, a street sign glinting under a security lamp.

  
‘Stratton...’ I mumble, John sitting bolt upright, wincing. ‘You okay?’

  
‘At the end of this road, turn right.’ He smirks at me. ‘Do you have a taser in your pocket?’

  
‘Or is he pleased to see you?’ Freddie chimes as I produce the device handing it to the brunette.

  
‘What are you planning?’ I smile as we turn onto another road, a grand building coming into view, Union Jacks flapping in the wind. 

  
‘Fancy a night at the Ritz, Freddie?’ John motions for the Brian to stop the Marina. ‘We’ve got a free night.’

  
‘No, we don’t.’ The guitarist points at a group of people hanging around in the lobby. ‘And how can you shoot 20-odd people with _one_ taser?’

  
‘Bold of you to assume I’m using a _taser.’_

  
With that, John exits the Marina, striding to the entrance of the Ritz and kicking the door open. He raises the weapon, pulling a pin out of it and lobbing it into the crowd. He spins around and sprints to us.

  
‘DRIVE!’

  
As the Marina surges forward, the lobby lights up, one explosion followed instantly by another until I can’t see inside due to the smoke.

  
‘Bloody hell, Deacy!’ Brian screeches as the bassist appears at his window.

  
‘I’ve checked, shouldn’t make any structural damage.’ He shrugs. ‘I set up a room for you and another for Freddie... he’s got the bigger bed of course.’

  
‘What will you two do?’ Freddie asks as I get out of the car, free from evil at last.

  
‘Celebrate our anniversary.’ John takes my hand, leading me down a side street, ignoring Fred’s protests. ‘What’s your favourite car brand again?’

  
‘Aston, you know that.’ I stare at him in anticipation. ‘what have you done?’

  
‘Not got us an Aston.’ He states, leading me to a bright orange Alfa Romeo. ‘I know it’s a shocking colour... and that it looks drunk – however, this is a Montreal.’ He taps his fingers – good hand, obviously – on the bonnet. ‘Top speed 139 miles an hour.’ 

  
My mouth drops. 

  
‘It’s... one of the fastest then?’ I squeal, caressing the roof. ‘Who’s driving?’

  
‘Not the one with a vodka-soaked cloth on his bone.... it’s unlocked.’

  
I grin, pulling the door open and hopping in, breathing in the smell of new car.

  
‘Did you just moan?’ John sends me an accusing look, handing me the keys. 

  
‘No!’ I start the Alfa, a husky roar coming from the bonnet, a loud gasp escaping me, the brunette bursting out laughing. ‘Fuck off.’

  
I press down the accelerator, not entirely prepared for the _power_ i’m unleashing.

  
‘Roger, either stop impersonating a cat porno or I will stick your voice in falsetto, _permanently.’_

  
‘Your fault for choosing something so sexy.’ 

  
‘Oh, don’t be so arrogant.’ John snorts. I shrug in response. ‘I’d say... M1? Could max it up there.’ 

  
I nod and head back onto the main road, glaring at the Marina as we go. 

  
‘How’s your arm?’ I ask, glancing at the bloodied cloths.

  
‘Stings... god it kills.’ He groans, meeting my eyes. ‘Why... why did you help?’

  
_‘Why?’_ I splutter. ‘Because I love you and didn’t want you bleeding out.’

  
‘It’s just... I tried to kill you.’ The bassist mumbles, looking away.

  
‘Yeah, about that – what happened with you tonight?’ 

  
‘When I stormed out, of the flat, I blew up Bri’s car because it’s an awful colour then panicked and drove off. I went straight to the Ferrari garage to nab a car, thinking of coming back and saving you from those two twats but I got chased by an Aus... Aust... can’t say it.’ 

  
‘Guess you didn’t know it was us then?’ I giggle. ‘Didn’t think I’d sink to the level of an Allegro I guess.’

  
‘No, I didn’t. Not until the last second, when I lit up yours and Bri’s faces, panicked again, and drove off. Didn’t want to face the three of you.’ John runs his good hand through his hair. ‘Then I went to the pub Freddie was kicked out of and blew the place up, fell into a table – hence the ashtray – drove off again and crashed at the end of Kensington High Street.’

  
‘About that... how the fuck did you survive.’

  
‘Sorry you three thought I was dead. It was a convertible so I flew out of it, smacking across the bonnet just before the car itself dive bombed off the bridge. My jacket was under there because it was in the passenger seat and I hid under the bridge because it was dark. Wasn’t expecting you three idiots to come along screaming.’

  
‘Us three were just searching for you all night. And chasing.’

  
‘Yeah, I know that.’ He snaps before sending me an apologetic look. ‘Trust me, I regretted running the _second_ I climbed that platform.’

  
_‘Wait..._ you were going to come back for me?’ I screech, pulling over at the pavement. ‘Really?’

  
‘Tonight’s _our_ night. And it’s our anniversary too.’ John smirks. ‘There’s only one way to celebrate an anniversary.’

  
I look over to him, snickering and lean towards him, the bassist scoffing.

  
‘What?’ I frown.

  
‘Not like _that..._ celebrate by flying down the M1 at a record-breaking speed.’ He shakes his head, sending me a filthy look. 

  
I sigh and slam my foot against the accelerator, growling echoing across the streets as I weave around Piccadilly. It doesn’t take long for the number of lanes to rise to 3 - a long, seemingly infinite expanse of road in front of us.

  
_‘Ready?’_ I grip the steering wheel as John gazes out at the tarmac.

  
‘Just drive, you cock.’ 

  
With that, I bury the pedal into the plush carpet, the tyres squealing as the Hertfordshire countryside whizzes past us. Next to me, John screams with joy, eyes wide and bright.

  
‘When did you steal this?’ I inquire.

  
‘Just before I rigged the Ritz lobby with explosives.’ He sniggers, winking at me. ‘Did that just before the Ferrari garage.’

  
I roll my eyes and gaze at him.

  
‘This is why I love you, John.’

  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
We arrive back at the flat at around 6, discarding the Alfa a few streets away. To our relief, the flat has survived the night and there’s no maniacs in trenhcoats lurking in the cupboard. 

  
‘Guess who the coat lot are.’ I flop on the sofa next to him, setting down the first aid kit on the table. ‘A group of girls that thought i slept with their brother.’

  
‘Wait, _what?’_ He laughs. ‘Tell me more.’

  
‘They thought I was a girl called Liz.’ I sigh, gently removing the cloths from his arm, my partner yelping. ‘Sorry, just redressing it until we can get you to hospital.’   
He rests his head on my shoulder, flinching as I remove the vodka cloth, whimpering against my neck.

  
_‘Why_ did I climb that platform.’ The bassist whines. ‘That bone was _not_ sticking out when I was under that _bridge-’_ He shivers, again.

  
He’s less... shouty this time and there’s less cursing of cloths as I treat his arm. I move to his shoulder, prising my shirt off of the ashtray. It’s nasty, this wound – really nasty; Freddie’s stabbing not helping. As I pack around the metal, a few quiet sobs come from my partner.

  
‘What’s wrong?’ I pause, stroking his other arm gently. 

  
‘Just hurts.’ He whispers. ‘I _swear_ it moves on its own.’

  
‘Not long now, i think it’s best you rest now too.’ I peck him softly on the jaw before finishing with his dressing. I stand and hook my arm under his legs, wrapping my other around his waist.

  
‘Roger, I just blew up the Ritz, I can walk to bed, for fucks sake.’

  
‘Don’t care.’ I smile, carrying him through to our bedroom and carefully place him on the sheets. ‘Lie on your front.’

  
John snickers.

  
‘Again, already?’ 

  
‘Oh, get fucked.’ I sigh as I lay next to him.

  
‘That _was_ what I was insinuating.’

  
‘Shut up.’ I thwack his arm, staring at him admiringly before landing a chaste kiss on his cheek. The bassist turns his head to catch my lips with his, passionate but modest. He pulls away, wincing.

  
‘Tired.’ He murmurs, nuzzling into his pillow as I tuck his messy hair behind his ear.

  
‘Night John.’

  
‘Fuck you Roger.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.  
> Also, the Alfa Romeo Montreal does have a top speed of 139mph. 39... Montreal... it’s a sign.


End file.
